Hand of God
by Maiden of Mercy
Summary: This is a oneshot dealing with Valtiel and how he revives Heather when she dies.


Valtiel crawled on hands and knees before the Mother of God, his leathered face twitching erratically as he studied her limp form. She was lying, quite motionless, in the middle of the floor. Blood pooled around her head like a crimson halo. Her skull appeared to have been shattered by some kind of blunt weapon. Gently, Valtiel rolled the Mother onto her back to study the wound. He grunted, quickly losing interest. It was nothing he hadn't seen before. This was the second time the Mother had been attacked in this way. Valtiel could already sense the rage inside her, stirring within as Claudia had intended. It made God stronger, and that was good.

Valtiel looked at the Mother and closed her staring eyes. It didn't matter that she was dead. He, the highest of angels, could both resurrect and reincarnate those beneath him. The mother's wounds could be healed, her life restored, and all without her knowledge. Her recollection of death would be vague and confused. Revival would bring her pain- birth was never sweet, after all- but her discomfort was irrelevant. All that mattered to Valtiel was the survival of the unborn God inside her.

Slowly, Valtiel wrapped his gloved hands around the Mother's ankles and began to drag her towards the doorway. Her body slid with an eerie rasp along the dirt-encrusted tiles, arms outspread in a lifeless mockery of crucifixion. Her clothes picked up filth and grime along the way; her jacket tearing here and there in places the Mother would never notice. Her limbs, too, became a problem. At one point her ankle became caught on a broken pipe and, impatient to get on, Valtiel tugged it a little too hard. There was an ugly crack as a something broke, and a bone pierced the skin. Valtiel was indifferent to this. The Mother's well being only concerned him if the Foetus was in danger. _She _was just a shell, a vessel for the divinity. Once God was born, the Mother would be just another worshipper to serve the child's every will.

In spite of this, Valtiel did not allow any monsters to savage her on their way to sanctuary. Time was short and he could not afford to waste it watching the Mother be torn limb from limb. He hoisted her down routes only he had knowledge of, keeping to the shadows when he could not be seen.

But colliding with at least one creature was inevitable. Whilst turning a corner, Valtiel came face to face with a nurse creature whose face dripped with blood. It shrieked at him, tottering forwards on blood-spattered heels with surprising speed for one of her kind. She was brandishing a rusty pipe in one hand, a primitive yet lethal weapon. Valtiel regarded it in disgust. He looked down on all lesser beings, considering them of little importance beyond the rage they instilled in the Mother. It was almost offensive that one of them should dare threaten him.

Valtiel let go of the Mother's legs and grabbed the nurse's throat, wrenching it as violently as possible in his hands. She jerked like a puppet with its strings cut, spine snapping inside her. Valtiel held onto her until he was certain she was dead. Then he tossed her aside, deciding he would return later to deal with her corpse. Dead things were so useful in this world. They could easily be manipulated and reborn as something else, their flesh twisting and changing as he moulded them with his skilled fingertips. Creation was an art and Valtiel was the sculptor. When it came to re-embodiment, he had the hands of God.

Valtiel caught hold of the Mother again, noting how cold she was to the touch. He knew he must work fast now if he wanted God to be healthy. The door to her refuge was mere metres away. He hauled her across the slippery tiles, the muscles bulging in his upper arms, and dumped her unceremoniously in the centre of the floor. Delicacy was useless in face of such a brutal masterpiece.

With the skilled precision of a surgeon, Valtiel ran the tip of one finger across the ugly split in the Mother's head. The edges of the gash began to knit themselves together, the strands of muscle weaving between chips of broken bone as they healed. Satisfied that her skull would mend itself, Valtiel turned his attention to the Mother's fractured ankle. Gingerly, he slid the heavy brown boot from her foot and removed the stocking beneath. He had never been able to understand why most humans desired so many layers of clothing. The priestesses of the Order wore only ceremonial robes, always barefoot and without jewels. Selfish lust for material objects was offensive to those belonging to the Sect of the Holy Woman. All people should want is the restoration of God, not pretty clothes and shoes. But Valtiel did not care enough to feel affronted by the Mother's habits, merely a tad bemused.

Her ankle was in very bad shape. The bone, which protruded grotesquely from her flesh, was slippery with clotting blood. If the Mother had still been alive when the accident occurred, it would have healed badly and given her a permanent limp. But she had been fortunate. Valtiel slid his thumb over the tip of the bone and pushed, keeping a firm grip on the Mother's heel with his free hand. There was a grisly popping sound as the bone slipped back into place. The torn skin around it smoothed itself down once more, its surface perfect and unmarred.

Valtiel inspected it from all sides and, pleased with his work, set about putting the boot back on again. He then scuttled across the Mother's body, straddling her chest so as to be in the best position to revive her heart. He opened her eyes, watching the clouded grey film over them begin to fade away. She was waking, albeit slower than usual.

Valtiel put his face close to hers and listened. The Mother was not yet breathing. This simply wouldn't do. He tugged her white vest open and slid a hand under her orange turtleneck, flattening his palm upon the top of her chest. He pressed down hard, concentration waning. His thoughts were suddenly elsewhere. In his mind's eye was a valve, turning, turning, the metal grinding with a rusty shriek in its never ending circle. To any other being, this picture would mean nothing. To Valtiel, it represented life itself and its never-ending cycle. Death was only a temporary state, a point at which the valve became obstructed. But with the correct amount of strength and celestial influence, proper motion could be restored.

Valtiel had both of those things and _more._

Under the skin beneath his gloved palm the Mother's heart began to beat.

Quick as a wink, Valtiel yanked her vest down and was scrambling from the room. He could not allow the Mother to see him in case she became suspicious of him. She was intelligent enough to make the connection between her pain and his appearance, and that was not what Valtiel wanted. It would only complicate things when simplicity was best for the Child.

And to Valtiel, the Child was everything.

Heather blinked unfocusedly and sat up, her head spinning with confusion. The back of her skull was pounding, and her leg felt horribly tender. For the life of her she just could not imagine why. Groaning, she dragged herself up onto her feet and swore as pain shot exploded in the left ankle.

"What the hell is this? I don't remember hurting myself like this. I… I don't…"

She put a hand to her face, breath hissing through gritted teeth. Her memory was a blur, a mangled blur, full of displaced images she couldn't understand. But the second she tried to focus on them they faded away, and all she had left was the lingering pain and her bewilderment. Frustrated beyond words, she slammed the but of her hand gun against the wall and slumped down to the floor.

"Damn it," she thought miserably. "Not again."


End file.
